Shattered Ideas
by Nyx Nightshade
Summary: A man's idea of humanity leads him to question his own strength. Introspective Wesker


The world as I saw it was tinged with dark edges and I could feel my control slipping with each heartbeat. Each pump of blood pushed me closer to an edge that I had no intention of diving over. Feeling this insane sickness creep up I reached for the case that held the antidote for the sweet poison coursing through my very veins.

With hands on the verge of trembling I removed a syringe and pushed my sleeve back, maybe a bit too savagely than entirely necessary. I brought the needle close to the crook of my left arm and wasted no time injecting the serum that would control the virus. I could feel it burning into my very cells as it worked its way through my veins. A minor itching feeling always accompanied the routine injections, I had learned long ago to simply ignore it, but it bothered me this time for some reason.

The single drop of blood that welled as I removed the needle from my skin caught my attention. This single drop of blood contained every piece of code for all the power of a god.

But gods aren't supposed to bleed.

Admittedly this thought caught me thoroughly off guard, and unsettled me more than I would have cared to admit. A rare moment of unease swept over my mind and my thoughts turned to all the other moments I had bled, the moments I had shown weakness. The more I dwelt on the concept the more the two ideas became inexorably linked in my inhuman mind. Blood and weakness.

To bleed was to let one's humanity seep out through their very skin. The tinkling sound of glass shattering against the floor brought me from my revere. My brief span of inattention infuriated me. I was slipping, losing control. The mirror on the other side of the room glinted at me, drawing my attention to my own form. Standing there watching my body shake and shudder from the after effects of the serum I was forced to take to retain some resemblance semblance of what was left of my sanity. Dependence: a sign of weakness.

The mirror was shattered before the desire could even finish manifesting itself in my mind. A lack of self-restraint, something that I usually prided myself on. A low growl escaped my throat. Weakness.

I could only stare at the glimmering shards of glass embedded in my hands. Even as my body began to reject the foreign invasion and the pieces fell to the ground the blood ran in rivulets down my fingers. The sound of the glass further fracturing on the floor and the drops raining down created a macabre symphony that matched my mood as well as anything ever could. Soon the glass had entirely been cleansed from my system and the skin knit itself back together. I was left staring at the fresh blood on my hands, both the physical and the imagined. Perfect recall blessed me with a replay of every murder these hands had ever preformed. Some of them for the furthering of my noble cause, others for nothing more than my own satisfaction.

But duty still called. Though really only minutes had passed ever nonproductive second was a waste. The world's problems wouldn't solve themselves. There was no time to waste on self-pity and ridicule.

I went to the bathroom that was connected to my personal quarters within the facility and washed the physical blood from my hands. My reflection caught my gaze again and I looked up to face myself. The recent injection gave my irises even more of a feral red glow than usual. The demon staring back at me in the mirror smirked and I turned away, repulsed. I wasn't that monster, I was trying to save humanity. Sometimes a few had to be sacrificed for the greater good.

Returning to my main quarters and surveyed the broken glass that littered the floor, shattered pieces of reflected light across the room. It was strangely beautiful. Some underling would no doubt take care of the mess. My sunglasses rested on the table beside my leather gloves. I pulled on the gloves and picked up the long black coat. The sunglasses remained on the table, staring up at me, seeming to mock me with my dependence on their ability to hide my emotions.

I picked them up and settled them on the bridge of my nose without further ado. There was no time to waste with more self-evaluation, distractions. My leather clad hand took hold of the knob that would lead from my personal quarters to the rest of the facility. I cast on more glance at the light reflected across the walls. Turning away I twisted the knob, ready to face the world as Albert Wesker.

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A/N: A short piece to help get me into the zone for working on my longer Resident Evil piece. Writing Wesker first person is kind of difficult, so see this a a bit of practice. Reviews are always appreciated, feedback makes better writers. Thanks!


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